


A Form of Chemical Madness

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8255285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Sam's on the cusp of turning sixteen, at the mercy of his hormones and frustrated by life on the road. But Sam's not the only one struggling with the changes he's undergoing as he approaches adulthood. Dean's noticed his little brother isn't so little these days as well...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series, Weecest. Sam is 15.

 

* * *

  
Sam is bored. Terminally bored. Dad has been gone for a week, Dean left two hours ago to blow off steam at some dive in town, and there's nothing on TV. Sam asked if he could tag along, but Dean had just arched an eyebrow and told him to lay the salt lines the minute he closed the door.  
  
Sam is on his second beer. They are Dean's and he'll probably tan his ass for drinking them if he's in any fit state when he gets back, but Sam figures he's owed reparations. He's going stir crazy. Damn Dean and his double standards. It's OK for him to hit up a sleazy joint armed with fake ID and a worldly smirk, but not for his little brother. His little brother who currently stands at two inches taller than Dean.  
  
Dean never gets called on his age. Bartenders and women - and especially women bartenders for that matter — don't think to question him. It's all in the attitude. Sam knows this. They have the exact same look in their eyes — resigned and knowing and too used to fear to show it. But Sam is still coltish and clumsy, a hostage to acute hot and cold moods and a seemingly endless metamorphosis which has him at odds with himself, while Dean is all assured louchness and easy, unspoken promises.  
  
Sometimes, watching his brother flirt with anything in a skirt makes Sam want to smash him in the face. He's not sure why exactly. It's just so Dean and so not Dean at the same time. It jars. It's pathetic how little of himself he has to put out there to get what he wants. Dean lite. Sam thinks on how his brother helps him with his homework even though he doesn't need his help at all. How Dean takes the bottle from John's hand on the worst kind of nights, when he falls asleep in a chair in some run down apartment or other between hunts, and drapes a blanket over him. How Dean puts himself in danger time and time again to give people he doesn't know and who don't know him a chance at a life. Things these dumb girls will never understand about his brother, but still they look at him like they're entitled. Like they're special. Worthy of his attention. Dean can make them believe that, and Sam hates it.  
  
Maybe Sam is a little drunk. It's not like he gets to drink all that often. He is thinking too hard and his thoughts get cloudy and muddled in his own mind. There's a directionless irritation building inside him. He's a little drunk and a lot bored. And warm too. It's a muggy night and with the doors and windows shut up tight, the motel room is stifling. Sam pulls his shirt up and off, and settles back against the headboard of his queen sized bed. There are two in the room, and if Dad comes back, he and Dean will have to share. Ridiculous at their ages. He flicks through the staticky channels a few more times and sighs, hoping against hope for a film or a sitcom. Finally, frustrated, he turns the TV to standby and flings the remote into the corner of the room.  
  
It lands with a soft whump on a duffle. Dean's duffle. Sam's not sure what possesses him just then. He and Dean have very little privacy, and what modicum they do have is fiercely and mutually respected. But Sam's a little buzzed, a lot frustrated - the fingers of his right hand are skirting distractedly around his left nipple - and suddenly his attention is drilled down to that bag because the contents might be exactly what he needs. Might just be the holy fucking grail to a teenage boy at a loose end.  
  
He stands and pads over to the corner. Sam looks around furtively even though he knows he's alone. Then before he can chicken out, he bends and opens the duffle, rifling through the musty smelling tees and socks until he finds...jackpot!  
  
The magazine is dog-eared and torn, but it looks promising. Sam's pulse picks up as he takes Dean's well-thumbed copy of _Wet & Willing_ back to the bed and starts to leaf through. The first girl is pretty enough although she's trying too hard to look serious and wearing too much make up for Sam's taste. Her clothes are sexy though. She washing a car in denim cut-offs which barely cover her perky ass and a short, white t-shirt which is sodden and clings to her full breasts. Sam's dick starts to take a keen interest as he studies the dusky pink of her nipples, visible through the wet fabric.  
  
He turns the page and the tee is gone. Sam slips a hand down his sweats and scratches his fingers through the crisp tangle of hair just inside his briefs. The next page, and she is completely naked, lying on the hood, the next and she is spread and glistening. Sam grips his rapidly filling cock as he flips again, expecting to see another girl in another outfit. But instead he sees the same girl, still open and moist, but now there is a guy too, naked from the waist up, jeans pulled down around his knees, hard cock in hand, the head nudging at the girl's clit.  
  
Sam can hardly believe his luck. This is way more graphic than anything he's seen before. He is jacking himself in earnest now and, knowing he's on the cusp already, he stops and takes a few deep breaths before he turns the page. He slides the corner down with a sticky finger, and pulls, but there is a tearing sound. The pages are stuck together.  
  
Sam's gut reaction is to laugh. _The pages are stuck together_. Gross! He thinks about Dean having been here first - jerking it to the same pictures and losing his shit all over the image that Sam so desperately wants to see and...  
  
...Sam has to use every scrap of self control he has to keep from spilling right there. _What the Hell_? That thought shouldn't squeeze his trigger. But he doesn't want to examine that right now, and instead he concentrates on gently prising one sheet of glossy paper from the other. When they finally come unstuck, Sam is relieved to see that the damage falls across the man's torso, and he has an unimpeded and fairly close-up view of the guy's dick buried half way inside the girl's pretty, pink pussy.  
  
Sam drinks in the image for a while, not touching himself, wondering where Dean even got this, and then he closes his eyes and relaxes back onto the bed before resuming languid strokes of his aching cock. It feels so good, and he wishes he could draw this sensation out for hours. But he is on the edge and he probably has all night, so he figures he'll go for it now and maybe start round two in twenty minutes or so. Sam's hand grips tighter and speeds up.  
  
  
Dean fumbles in his pocket for his keys. The night's been a total bust. He'd left the car he's currently using in the motel lot, planning on getting wasted, but twenty five minutes to walk there, and it had been dead. He'd stuck around for over an hour, thinking maybe things would liven up, but no such luck. He had got to thinking he may as well be chugging the cold six pack he has back at the motel and watching a shitty movie on TV with Sammy instead of wasting money in this craphole, so he'd settled up and headed back. The night is clear and humid so he'd taken his time, looking at the stars and enjoying the quiet.  
  
He thinks, as he approaches their door, that he'll let Sam have a beer. The kid deserves it. He's had it hard recently being pulled from pillar to post, no chance to put down roots or make real friends. No wonder he's such a little bitch these days. He and Dad have been butting heads more and more, and though Dean knows his little brother still looks to him for most things, still trusts and respects him, it's getting rarer to see that huge, white smile he used to make so free with. Dad steps up his training, and Sam complies, but Dean can feel his brother retreating. Slipping away.  
  
Dean takes a couple of attempts to slot the key in the hole, the shots he's downed making it trickier than it should be. But finally he slides it home, twists and trips noisily over the threshold.  
  
The sight that greets him makes his cheery “Honey, I'm home!” die on his lips.  
  
Sam is stretched out on the bed, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. He is bare-chested, his sweats pushed down his thighs. The dim, sodium light from the standard lamp makes his sweat-sheened skin look golden. He's bow-taut, back arched and heels digging into the polyester coverlet. One large hand is splayed on his chest, thumb and forefinger closed hard around his nipple, and the other is wrapped around possibly the biggest dick Dean has ever seen. It's hard and wet, straining in Sam's hand.  
  
All this he registers in a heartbeat. Then Sam's eyes fly open, his head whips to the side and he fixes Dean with a panicked stare. His cheeks are flushed, mouth open, bangs glued to his forehead with perspiration.  
  
“Dean!” he chokes out. “What're you -?”  
  
“Uh!” Dean's jaw is stuck somewhere around floor-level. “I — uh — Shit! Sorry. I...I'm gonna hit the shower.”  
  
Dean launches himself through the door into the bathroom and bolts it behind him. He stands paralysed for a few moment, blinking in the harsh neon light and trying to fathom what the fuck just happened. Well, Sam had been spanking the monkey. Obviously. Dean knows that. Nothing news-worthy there. What else do fifteen-year-olds do when left to their own devices? Hell, it's what he would being doing in Sam's situation. But what was his reaction all about? He's never actually caught him in the act before. Dean may have heard the odd sound — rustling and slick noises from the other bed in the small hours or a muffled groan under the rush of running water from the bathroom - but he's never seen Sam like that before. So out of it. So abandoned. So like a man instead of the serious little kid Dean's been looking out for since before he can even remember.  
  
Dean would've totally ragged on him if he hadn't been distracted by how damn...big he'd gotten.  
  
He should have laughed. It's funny. It's just the shock is all. Just surprise making his ears burn and his mouth dry up. Dean's no prude — God knows he's not — it's just so...surreal.  
  
Dean shakes his head, smiling in the hope it will uncoil the knot of whatever is lying dark and bulky in his stomach, and makes a start for the shower, but he's stopped in his tracks by a sound. A strangled, high-pitched yelp, muffled by a fist or a pillow, but clearly discernible through the cheap, chipboard door. The realisation punches the air out of his lungs.  
  
Sam carried on. Sam got caught in the act by his big brother, but he'd been so far gone, he'd jacked himself to completion anyway.  
  
Dean's head spins a little as he turns the faucet. He lets the water run luke warm and strips, trying to ignore the hefty throb between his legs. He climbs into the tub and draws the mouldy curtain, squeezing his eyes shut against the vivid images of Sam's monster cock — but Jesus it's huge - twitching and spurting a huge load on his flat, almost hairless tummy which keep scudding across his mind.  
  
He lowers the water temperature a fraction at a time until there is no warmth to it at all, but his skin adjusts and Dean tells himself it's just the unfulfilled potential of a night gone flat that has his hand reaching down and squeezing gently at his hardening dick. He'd gone out to get laid. He'd failed. Stupid Sam has made him think about getting off. That's all. He scours his memory for something to focus on — maybe that hot little waitress who'd given him the eye in the diner a few miles back when they drove into town last week. But he can't really remember her face, and a tight little body in a generic uniform isn't going to cut it right now. His imagination takes the reins, and Dean is stripping his cock hard and fast to the very real thought of Sam wiping the cooling mess of semen off his belly with his t-shirt in the next room before he even realises what he's doing.  
  
_Dirty. Sick. Wrong. He's your brother. Your little brother. You used to dress him and hold the tissue to his button nose and tell him to blow. You used to cut up his food and put bandaids on his knees._  
  
But Dean is so close, that bitten off cry from bedroom echoing in his skull. His mind's eye finds Sam's startled look, his sweaty hair, the sharp cut of his hips tilted up toward the waterstained ceiling, and he's shuddering, come hitting the grimy tiles in three strong bursts.  
  
Dean is so royally fucked.  
  
  
Sam casts a final look at the duffle — all packed neatly away — and then a glance down at himself. He'd used a sock to clean himself up and bundled it into his own bag before pulling up his sweats and putting his tee back on. He's pretty sure being caught jerking off by his big brother just made him come like a freight train, but he doesn't want to think about that right now. He wants to pass out. He flops back onto the pillows, staying outside the bedspread to keep cool and he's almost asleep by the time his brother emerges. He cracks an eye open and sees Dean, towel knotted around his waist, bending over to retrieve some shorts and a worn tee from his bag. He closes his eyes and concentrates on taking deep, even breaths, but he feels the weight of Dean's gaze on him. He's not fooled, and Sam flinches when his brother's hand cuffs his foot.  
  
“Hey, you know the rules. No rooting through my stuff, bitch!”  
  
“Fuck off, Dean. You left me. I was bored. Jerk.”  
  
Dean chuckles at that.  
  
“I think we both know who the real jerk is tonight, Sammy.”  
  
Sam huffs a sigh and rolls over on his front. If he survives the night through his mortification, he hopes things will seem less screwy in the morning.  
  
  
It's a week before Sam's sixteenth birthday and the Winchesters — all three of them — are in a derelict farmhouse in Idaho, when a violent spirit throws Sam out of a first floor window. Dean is up and out of the house before John can fire off the first salt round.  
  
Dean finds his brother lying on his side in the dirt, groaning in pain and winded but relatively unharmed.  
  
It's a hospital job though. Sam's right wrist is completely snapped, him having put his hand out on reflex to try and break his fall, and it needs setting right. They give him some strong painkillers, and he tells Dean the same stupid joke over and over in the car on the way to Pastor Jim's, lolling all over him and singing along with the radio. Dean laughs each time and weaves his fingers through his brother's hair while he tries to hold a tune in his broken voice, because for the first time in ages Sam seems genuinely happy. Dean knows it's just the drugs, and in a few hours he'll be back to his surly-ass self, but this is nice. The sun pours through the window and Sam smells of plaster of Paris and iodine. He's bony and sharp against the side of Dean's body, too much heat radiating from him. Now and then John fixes him with a questioning look in the rear view, and Dean has to dart his eyes away.  
  
  
Sam knows he should expect to be let down by their father by now, but some small part of him had still expected John to be here when he woke up this morning. A cursory glance out of the window shows the Impala is still conspicuous by its absence, and even Dean and Jim are nowhere to be found.  
  
Sam slept late. The painkillers knock him out, but it's still weird to wake up to a completely silent house.  
  
Hi stomach rumbles and he forages for cereal in the kitchen. Everything is so much more effort now he only has his left hand in working order. Sam finds a bowl and a spoon just fine, but the packet of Cheerios is unopened and it takes a few solid minutes of fumbling before Sam tears the plastic innards, showering himself in little hoops in the process.  
  
“Shit!”  
  
“Language, Sammy!”  
  
Sam spins, and sees Dean standing in the doorway, smirking.  
  
“Can't leave you alone for a second, can I?” he says, closing the distance between them. “Happy birthday, sweet sixteen.”  
  
He holds out a brown paper bag to Sam.  
  
Sam takes it cautiously, still too peeved to be really thankful.  
  
“Where you been?” he asks.  
  
“Gettin' your present, princess. Now open it!”  
  
Sam softens a little and manages a half smile.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
He peers inside the bag and sees bare flesh.  
  
“You bought me skin mags?”  
  
“Figured it would stop you swiping mine,” Dean says with a shrug.  
  
Sam feels the blush bloom up from his throat.  
  
“You bought dirty magazines into the house of a holy man? You're going to Hell, Dean.”  
  
Dean's face crumples slightly at that and Sam wishes he could take it back. He smiles instead.  
  
“They're not just any magazines, Sammy. They're the real deal. From Europe. You wouldn't believe what I had to do to get those.”  
  
Sam feels a genuine smile tugging the corners of his mouth.  
  
“Thanks. Really. It's just -”  
  
Dean cuts him off, not needing him to finish to know what's on his mind. He's been reading him true his whole life. Sometimes the enormity of that — the fact Sam can't lie to his brother or hide from him — makes his heart clench.  
  
“I know Dad said he'd be here. And he will. Might be a bit late is all. But he'll be here, Sam. And tonight you, me, Dad and Jim are going to get steaks and beer and watch the game. Then tomorrow we'll do whatever you want. OK?”  
  
Sam looks at his brother, green eyes soft and wide.  
  
“OK.”  
  
Dean sets to cleaning up the spilled cereal and finishes preparing it. Sam sits and eats while Dean makes coffee.  
  
Sam slips the magazines out of the paper bag and studies them. He opens the first one in the pile — _Horny Housewives_ , seriously Dean? - but shuts it again quickly when the first image that hits him is of a brunette, head buried between the legs of a blonde, tongue pressed up inside her. A wash of clammy heat flushes down through him. He picks up his spoon and shakes his bangs over his eyes, keeping his head down to mask his ruddy cheeks. He hears Dean laugh quietly.  
  
  
Dean is about to take his laundry down to the kitchen when a sound from the boxroom Sam is staying in makes him pause on the landing. Sam is making these soft little grunts — testing out his birthday gift no doubt. Dean tries to ignore the sudden dump of blood he feels surge toward his dick. He's bought Sam a gift — a real gift — but he wants to wait until tonight when they are all together to give it to him. Make it feel like a real birthday.  
  
He's pleased Sam likes the porn. He'd been in two minds about handing it over. Part of him wanted to apologise in some way for bursting in on him a few weeks ago. Part of him just wanted to stop the kid nosing through his duffle again. There are limits, even for the Winchesters. And a very small, very quiet part of him — a part Dean wishes he could rip out and grind into the dirt with his boot — liked the thought of his kid brother getting off on something Dean had given him.  
  
_Twisted fuck. Hot for your own brother. Your kid brother._  
  
Dean is about to put his foot on the top step when he hears a cracked  
  
“Damnit!”  
  
from the bedroom. He's got his hand on the doorknob, the washing forgotten, before he even registers the decision to go in — a Pavlovian response to hearing Sammy in distress — and he barely remembers to knock before he pushes the door open.  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
“Just a sec!”  
  
Dean waits just outside, the door ajar, and waits for Sam's quiet “OK” before he looks inside.  
  
Sam looks flustered and pissed off. He's sitting against the headboard of his single bed, tee rucked up and caught in his fly which is a giveaway to say the least. The magazines have been put hurriedly on the bedside table and one flops to the floor as Dean takes in the tableaux. He swallows hard.  
  
“Everything OK?”  
  
“Fine, Dean. I'm fine. Just resting is all.”  
  
“Yeah — sounds like,” Dean says, smirking.  
  
Sam knows he's sprung.  
  
“Yeah well, you're making a bit of habit of this, Dean. Perv.”  
  
That hits Dean low and his face must show it because Sam's expression lightens before he purses his lips and holds up his cast, shooting his brother a meaningful look.  
  
“Just discovering I'm definitely not ambidextrous,” he says shyly.  
  
Dean lets out a surprised laugh.  
  
“Well...uh. I can see how that would be a bummer. Sorry, man. I didn't think.”  
  
Sam laughs then.  
  
“'S'alright. Thought that counts, right?”  
  
The room goes silent then and the Winchester brothers look at each other — Sam on the bed, Dean in the doorway. Dean feels numb, his hands trembling and knees weak like in the aftermath of a hunt, as he turns and closes the door. When he looks back at Sam, his brother looks wary and hopeful and scared and cocky all at once.  
  
“Could help you out,” Dean breathes, low enough that he can deny it if Sam freaks out. Low enough that Sam can pretend he didn't hear him.  
  
Sam licks his lips and Dean's cock twitches in his pants.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says finally. “Yeah. Please.”  
  
_So this is it_ , Dean thinks. _You're actually going to molest your brother on his sixteenth birthday. Bang up job, Winchester. Dad'll be real proud._  
  
Sam is braced on his good hand, looking like he still can't quite believe what's happening as Dean approaches the bed. He knows he can't back down now without this seeming like the mother of all cruel pranks. The naked awe and hunger in Sam's eyes is enough to tell him that they'll never get back from it if he thinks for a moment Dean was just yanking his chain.  
  
He reaches his brother, standing on shaky legs, and Sam grasps his wrist with his good hand, tugging him down. Dean sits on the edge of the old mattress and runs a hand through the silky strands of Sam's hair. Sam smiles and Dean wants with ever fiber of his being. It's an epiphany. This isn't the familiar bodily thrill he gets when he knows he's on a promise from some barfly. He feels this right down to his bones. He's hard, his mouth dry, his heartbeat erratic. He wants Sam so badly right now that it makes tears spring up in his eyes. It's more like pain than pleasure. He wants Sam. He loves Sam. He's _in love_ with Sam. There's nothing in the world more important that Sam's happiness. He'd walk on hot coals if Sam so much as told him to, so he's not about to refuse him a warm hand to fuck if that's what he needs.  
  
But Dean's conflicted, mind racing ahead to the possible fallout. Sam might be disgusted once the arousal's worn off. Or he might be hooked, which could be worse. This might spiral. Become a regular thing, and Dean's not sure he'll be able to take it if — no, _when_ — Sam finds a girl he's serious about and outgrows fooling around with his brother. What if Dad finds out?  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Sam's uncertain voice drags him out of his musing, and he snags his fingers tightly in his hair and brings Sam's face towards him so he can press his lips against his little brother's. And, oh God, it's sweet. It's soft and warm and it should feel weird but, so help Dean, it doesn't. Sam opens his mouth a little, tentatively, and his breath is warm and moist and smells of watermelon candy. He's been eating Jolly Ranchers. Dean moans and slips his tongue into his brother's mouth, licking at Sam's teeth, eating up his soft little pants.  
  
This isn't how it was supposed to go. This isn't Dean helping his sexually frustrated brother out. This isn't a one-time, prison, barracks, at sea, needs-must type thing. This is making out. It's slow and deep and even though Sam's clearly inexperienced, it's driving Dean out of his mind. Sam's hands slide around to his chest and push lightly, so Dean breaks off, worried he's about to be rejected.  
  
“You OK, Sammy?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam pants, “yeah — Oh God, yeah. It's just...this is gonna be over real quick.”  
  
He ducks his head, letting his bangs mask his eyes, and Dean brushes them out of the way again wit the back of his, stroking down his cheek and tilting his head up by the chin so he can look right into his pretty amber-green eyes.  
  
“Don't hide from me,” Dean whispers. “Ever. Don't you do that.” He leans in and plants another plush kiss on Sam's parted lips, then another on his throat and Sam moans.  
  
“Take your clothes off, wanna see you.” Dean leans back and watches as Sam pulls his tee off eagerly, taking in all the new planes and dips of his lithe body. Dean never knew he liked this — hard muscle and sharp lines, but looking at the trail of peachy-soft hair than leads from Sam's navel to under the waistband of his jeans - and the very large bulge they conceal — he thinks Sam has the prettiest tummy he's ever seen. He wants to nuzzle it, put his tongue in Sam's bellybutton and lick at that soft fuzz. So he does.  
  
Sam goes rag-doll limp and lies back, making these cut-off little whimpers than have Dean rocking on the seam of his jeans. His fingers work Sam's jeans opens, and he pulls them down unceremoniously, taking Sam's boxers with them. Sam's dick springs free and it's enormous. It looks even big up close than it had the other week. Sam's tacky with sweat and he smells strong. Dean snaps his eyes up to where Sam is watching him from under heavy lids.  
  
“You know you're huge, right?”  
  
Sam nods. He looks apologetic. Dean smiles.  
  
“'S so hot, Sammy. Hung like a horse. So fuckin' hot.”  
  
Sam moans and Dean swipes his tongue along the length of Sam's shaft, curling it around when he reaches the head.  
  
“Oh my GOD!” Sam cries, and his hips buck up off the bed. Dean chuckles and does it again. He's never sucked a guy off before, but he doesn't think it will take much to make Sammy feel good.  
  
“You ever been blown before, Sam?”  
  
His voice is husky with need. Sam just looks stunned and shakes his head.  
  
“Well, consider this part two of your birthday present.”  
  
Dean sucks at the head a little, and works his tongue around like it's a popsicle. He's had guys hit on him, tell him he's got a pretty, cocksucking mouth, and he knows what he likes done to him, so he figures he'll wing it. He makes it good and wet, keeps his teeth covered and starts to bob his head, taking a little more of his brother's dick into his mouth each time. Sam is making the most beautiful noises above him and Dean pushes his hips into mattress over and over.  
  
He's only been at it for a half a minute when Sam's hands try to push him off.  
  
“Dean! Dean! Don't. I'm gonna — I have to — stop - DEAN!”  
  
Sam spurts long, bitter and strong into his brother's mouth. It's not the most pleasant taste, but it's not the worst either. Dean seals his lips around his cock, breathes through his nose and swallows his release down, lifting his head to shoot a dirty smile at the ruin of his brother. Sam is gasping, eyes wide and hair dishevelled.  
  
“How long before you can get it up again?”  
  
  
Sam laughs at his brother's question. He feels exposed — naked with his jeans and shorts restraining his lower legs while his fully clothed brother watches him.  
  
“Uh...ten minutes. Maybe less.”  
  
Dean gives him a wicked grin.  
  
“Really? Good for you, Sammy!”  
  
Dean stands and pulls his t-shirt up over his head. Sam watches him, framed by the sunlight from the single window. The room seems too small for this suddenly, to small to contain all the things Sam is feeling. Dean unbuckles his pants, pushes them down and steps out of them before pulling Sam's completely off and discarding them in a pile on the floor with his own.  
  
Dean stands in just his briefs, erection clearly outlined and a smear of wet low down on his belly. Sam realises H's holding his breath as Dean gently lowers the briefs, revealing his straining cock.  
  
“You're not small either,” Sam says licking his lips.  
  
Dean winks at him and it's the wink he uses on waitresses and the women he picks up in bars, but there's more heat behind it, and affection too, and it sets a shiver skittering all over Sam's skin.  
  
“Scoot!” Dean says, swatting lightly at Sam's thigh and Sam shifts to make a space for him on the narrow bed. Dean lowers himself onto the bed and starts to nose and kiss at Sam's face, his hair, behind his ears, under his jaw, his neck, further down burying his face in the damp hair under Sam's arm, making him feel self-conscious but also kind of worshipped.  
  
Sam giggles as Dean runs his tongue teasingly around his nipples, his spent cock feeling the tingle it elicits. Dean runs his fingers along Sam's ribs, tests the give of the flesh as his waist. It tickles.  
  
“So beautiful, Sammy,” Dean says, placing butterfly kisses all over the concave stretch of his stomach.  
  
“You are,” Sam says, feeling ready to burst. This attention is making him fall apart. Dean's deft hands and lips and teeth and tongue keep him on the verge of laughter and tears all at once. Dean — his hero brother who can have anyone he wants — is working him over, carefully smelling and touching and tasting him like he's something infinitely precious.  
  
Sam sighs and closes his eyes as his brother raises up to cover his mouth again. He sucks on his plump lower lip, tonguing at the sharp white teeth beyond. Dean's been with so many people, and Sam's barely even made to first base before today. He knows he's probably kissing all wrong, and the fact he'd creamed himself as soon as Dean took him in his mouth is embarrassing as all Hell. That's all before you get to the part about them being brothers. But Dean is groaning into his mouth, grinding his hard, seeping cock against his hip and Sam can't find it in himself to be ashamed.  
  
Before long, Dean is using his talented hands to cajole Sam's cock back to full hardness.  
  
“Mmm. Damn, Sammy,” He says between open mouthed kisses. “hard again already. Gonna be the death of me.”  
  
Sam can only moan his response as Dean slides up and over him, nudging Sam's legs apart and lying between them. Somehow this feels more real, more intimate. Dean lying on top of him. This feels like something completely new. It hits him then. He's having sex. He's having sex with Dean. Sam closes his eyes and breathes deeply, trying to calm down. He wants to make this last.  
  
Dean rubs his swollen dick all over Sam's thighs, his belly, his hips before sliding it alongside Sam's own and starting to hump. It's sticky-wet, Dean's precome slicking the way even though the spit on Sam has dried up, and it feels amazing. Sam starts to push back with his hips, finding a counter rhythm to his brother's thrusts.  
  
“God, Dean. Feels so good.”  
  
“Yeah, Sammy. Just like that.” Dean mashes his forehead against Sam's. “Keep going. Right there. Yeah. Rub off on my cock. Get us both off.”  
  
Sam is so turned on, he think he might die from it. He sucks at Dean's lips again — that's never going to get old — and rides out the sensations sparking off all over him. He's shaking, teeth on the verge of chattering as Dean's skillful tongue probes around them.  
  
“Oh, God, Sam. Wanna be inside you so bad. Wanna fuck you.”  
  
Dean is babbling now, dirty words tumbling out of him and making Sam's hips cant wildly and his mouth say things which he'll blush about for weeks when this over.  
  
“Yeah, Dean. Want that too. Want you inside me. Be the first and last to fuck my ass.”  
  
Dean's hips still and Sam feels him twitch, wet heat on his oversensitised cock. He keeps hunching upwards, pushing his hard flesh through the sludgy puddle between them and his eyes roll back in his head as his second orgasm tears through him. A few weak pulses of come add to the slippery mess on their abs, and Dean slumps onto him, whispering, “Jesus Christ” and “Sammy” and kissing his neck.  
  
They spend long minutes, breath and heartbeats slowing, kissing lazily and studying each other's faces. Sam traces Dean's freckles with the fingers of his good hand, and Dean presses tiny kisses to the mole by Sam's nose and on his chin. Finally Dean says,  
  
“We should shower. Jim'll be back soon.”  
  
Sam feels guilt as a cold prickle which spreads out from his spine.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says gently. “It's OK. Ain't nobody's business but ours. Whatever you want, Sammy. Whatever you say, goes. Anything you want.”  
  
Dean peppers kisses across the bridge of his nose, and Sam knows this is it for him. He can and will face anything this life can throw at him because Dean Winchester has his back. His brother. His hero. His everything. How can that be wrong?  
  
Dean rolls off him and stands up, joints popping as he stretches and makes his way to the door.  
  
“Hey, Dean?”  
  
Dean stops and turns.  
  
“Best birthday present ever.”  
  
Dean thinks about the early edition of _The Catcher In The Rye_ currently wrapped in a soft, worn tee, nestled at the bottom of his duffle, and smiles.  
  
“Yup,” he agrees. “And it ain't even my birthday.”

* * *

 


End file.
